So the dark horse among the contestants has emerged triumphant at the top of the jungle food chain.

Much less well-known than the more established rivals, perhaps; yet not afraid to slug it out night and day before the Great British Public.

Not abashed by questions about the possible possession of less-than-perfect personal habits, and not ashamed of having a more privileged background than the rest of them in the race.

But enough about David Cameron... didn't Carol Thatcher do well?

Somehow I wasn't surprised to learn that Carol didn't tell her mum that she planned to spend most of November chomping on Skippy's privates for the delight of the viewing millions.

It was just as easy to believe Carol's assertion that Maggie wouldn't even notice that her daughter had been away - and that she couldn't ring her to tell her about her triumph because she didn't have her telephone number.

Tough-as-boots Carol was clearly raised with what Americans call "tough love". In fact, as she told her fellow contestants on the last night of the competition: "I was brought up to get on with it".

She joined her fellow hopefuls on I'm A Celebrity - Get Me Out Of Here! as a rank, 33-1 outsider, overshadowed by more glamorous soap star rivals. But her resilient, pragmatic approach won over voters who could arguably have been once bitten, twice shy about returning any sort of Thatcher to victory.

The way Carol bullied that southern jessie Jilly Goolden into crunching her way through her fair share of shrivelled roo bits could have melted the stoniest of hearts.

One wonders how many Tory party stalwarts must have stared open-mouthed at Carol's performance in the Australian jungle and wondered what might have been if they had only had Thatch Junior as a candidate in their latest leadership battle.

I'd like to have seen David Cameron take Carol on in a Bush Tucker Trial. I know who my money would have been on, and it wouldn't have been a baby-faced smoothie with no track record and a silver spoon in his lah-di-dah gob.

Then again, I've voted for Tony Blair before now.

Stocking up on groceries at Sainsbury's at the weekend, I ended up in the check-out queue next to the vet who has my two moggies on his surgery list.

I regressed instantly into child mode, scrabbling frantically in my shopping basket to cover up the illicit soft cat food I still buy my cats despite dire warnings about tartar and gum disease (caused to the cats, not to me).

I know I shouldn't indulge them. It's partly that I can't stand the piteous mewing that follows me around the house when I give them the Hills Science Diet for the 14th day in succession.

But it's also that I can't quite swallow the idea that meat is no good for carnivores to eat.

Be that as it may, it's amazing how quickly your self-justification evaporates when you see an authority figure on the horizon.

It was fine, anyway.

He didn't recognise me, leaving me free to indulge one of my less attractive traits by gazing judgmentally into the contents of his shopping trolley.

Lots of good old organic products and plenty of fresh food and veg, I was glad to see; together with a catering-sized cargo of Schweppes tonic water.

No doubt he was stocking up for the coming Christmas party season. Then again, trying to give my cats a dental examination is enough to make anyone down a vat of G&T.

Updated: 10:40 Wednesday, December 07, 2005